The Girlfriend (The Boss 2)

“Can he still come home?” Neil hated the hospital, and he’d expressed anxiety that he might end up admitted.

“As soon as we push some fluids and he’s a little less sedated, I don’t see why not. No strenuous activity, he can’t get the stitches wet, but other than that he should be fine. When does he start chemotherapy?” The doctor reached into his pocket for a pen, and flipped open a chart on his desk.

“Um, next week. Next Monday?” I watched as the surgeon scribbled something I couldn’t read.

“I’m going to leave a note for the attending oncologist. I think I’m on that day, so I’d like to check up on him while he’s here.” He said all this with the grim demeanor of a dentist who knows you haven’t been flossing.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, raising my eyes a little to see if I could nonchalantly peer down at the chart.

He closed it. “Yes, of course. As you’re not Mr. Elwood’s representative, I can’t give you specifics, I’m sure you understand.”

“Um, yeah.” I nodded. I hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t enough to just be there with him; if something went wrong, I needed paperwork.

“If you’d like to see Mr. Elwood, he’s in recovery. I can take you back.”

I followed the doctor into a hallway with individual rooms with glass doors and pale blue curtains for privacy. He paused before one, knocked briefly, slid the door open and said, “Mr. Elwood, are you ready for company?”

“Sophie?” I heard Neil’s voice, small and tired, and I pushed back the curtain enough to step through.

“Hey,” I said with a stupid little wave. What was it about hospitals that drove such distance between me and my loved ones? My mom had her gallbladder out when I was in high school, and I’d felt like I was visiting a stranger when I’d gone to see her in her room that night. Neil hadn’t even been admitted overnight, and I was already afraid that inability to be normal in a medical setting would drive a wedge between us.

No. I would not let hospital awkwardness defeat me where Neil was concerned. I went to his side, pulled a chair close to the bed, and said, “How was it?”

“Awful.” He shook his head, then relaxed with a little sigh and closed his eyes. “Even with the sedatives and the local anesthetic. But it’s over now.”

“Yeah, apparently there was a complication? Do they ever give you straight answers in hospitals, or...”

“Never.” He reached over without opening his eyes, and I took his hand. He still had an IV in it, so I kept my palm under his and his arm low.

“Well, at least you’ll get some down time to heal up before the chemo. Of course, that sounds kind of like in The Princess Bride when they heal Westley up before they torture him.” Gently, I moved the unsnapped shoulder of Neil’s gown, to see the surgical site. There was a gauze bandage on his chest, just below his collar bone. “I wonder if that will leave a sexy scar.”

“It will probably leave a scar, but I’m not sure how sexy it will be.” His voice was hoarse. “Could you pass me that water?”

I saw the Styrofoam cup on the rolling table at the end of the bed. I picked it up, brought it to him, and held the straw to his lips. “Drink.”

“You’re an angel,” he mumbled between sips.

“Pretty much.” When he was finished, I sat back down and held the cup in my lap. “I was thinking about ways that I could help out while you’re in and out of the hospital.”

“Being with me is a help.” He grimaced as he sat up. “Ah, that’s going to be sore for a while.”

“I’ve always heard that the third day is the worst for surgery. So, you have something to look forward to.” I squeezed his knee through the thin hospital blanket. “What I meant was, you can’t be focused on getting better if you’re trying to run a household. And Emma has a job and a whole life going on. She really can’t be worried about making your doctor appointments and hiring staff. That’s not fair to her.”

“Are you suggesting...”

“I think I could do that stuff for you. I mean, I don’t know the difference between all the forks they set out on our dinner table, but I think I can handle telling them what we want to eat. And if you don’t want me to deal with your medical stuff, I won’t. I just feel... helpless.” I had originally thought to propose the idea as a boon to him. Now I just sounded needy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come off so whiny.”

“Am I to assume this desire to be more involved is due to sitting in a waiting room, worrying about me?” He turned his head to smile at me sleepily. “Or an attempt to wrest control from the king while he is sedated?”